At Last
by Jennifer Lee
Summary: Written with Ellbee, sequel to Eternally. Unwilling to remain in Rivendell to await the inevitable, Isobel has traveled to Gondor to face the end, bravely or not.
1. Default Chapter

"At Last," by Jennifer Lee and Ellbee

Disclaimer: We don't own Lord of the Rings or any of the characters brought to life by J.R.R. Tolkien, we're only having a bit of fun.

Note: This is a sequel to Eternally, a story Ellbee and I wrote just about a year ago. Like "Eternally," it is a mixture of book- and movieverse.  For example, since Peter Jackson saw fit to leave the Houses of Healing on the cutting room floor, we have dragged them forcibly into our story.  The part of Legolas is still played by Orlando Bloom, thank heavens.  Thanks for reading!

Chapter One 

"No, do not bother with that, leave it. There is no room."

The voice filtered down the hall to Isobel, along with all the other noise of hurried packing; brisk footsteps on the stone floors, the endless questions from the children, the soft sobs of the serving girl as she carried out baskets and bags to the waiting wagon.

Isobel looked dully out onto the restless city. All along this normally quiet street, people were moving briskly, loading clothes and food and a few precious possessions into carts and wagons. Several small children seemed to think it all a fine game, but the eyes of their elders were serious and worried.

This was wrong, she could not help but think.  She should not be leaving Minas Tirith.  But for the life of her she could not understand what made her feel this way.

Perhaps it was because she had only just arrived. The men of Gondor had seen her safely to the city only a few weeks ago. She had had no place to stay, but Saeldir, one of the men of Boromir's company, had taken her to his home.  His wife had been surprised to see her, but had treated her kindly, and given her the use of a small bedroom that had belonged to her eldest daughter, now married. Isobel had barely time to thank Saeldir before he was off, for he was a guard of the Citadel and the city was preparing for war.

Uncomfortable as she was to once again be so dependent on others, she had settled in fairly well, helping Arvess, Saeldir's wife, as well as she could in running her household and minding the children. But now they were leaving.

At first only a few families left.  Then a few more, and a few more, until nearly every day they were saying goodbye to someone, helping them pack carts and tie knots.  Arvess, though, had seemed unwilling to leave, and Isobel had found herself hoping that they would not leave the city as so many had already. But as rumors grew of the coming war, Arvess began to fear for the safety of her children.  Small battles had already been fought on the outskirts of the land surrounding the city, and they all could sense darkness coming closer and closer.  Isobel could not blame Arvess for being afraid. But she herself had no children, no family to see to, so there was nothing to compel her to flee. Then finally yesterday, the blow fell.

"Isobel!"  Arvess's voice floated from the front room, down the short corridor to Isobel's room.  "Are you nearly packed?"

She blinked, jolted out of her reverie.  "Yes, nearly!" she called back, wincing a little at the obvious lie.  Nearly finished?  She had not even begun, so lost in her thoughts, the desperate, nagging feeling that she should not be going anywhere.  If only she could understand the feeling, know what pulled so insistently at her heart, begging her to stay.

But time was running out. The order was to evacuate the city by midday. All citizens were to be well clear of the area by nightfall, and so she had no time. Isobel yanked the coverlet off her bed and spread it on the floor, then she turned to her trunk, heaving the lid open. Inside were her things: clothing and items given to her in Rivendell, as well as some slightly heavier dresses lent to her by Arvess.

She sighed at the task ahead. Everything she needed was already in there, already packed. But the trunks were too large, too heavy. Space was at a premium in the small cart that carried Saeldir and Arvess's family, and so the trunks must be left behind.

She scooped out an armload of belongings, dresses and headscarves, underthings and stockings, and turned to drop them onto the floor in the center of the blanket.  The garments thumped softly to the blanket, but a soft ting sounded also, attracting her attention.  Her gaze dropped to the floor and swept to the right, easily picking out the source of the sound.  A small silver amulet, wrought in the shape of twisting leaves, lay just on the edge of the blanket, glimmering dimly in the early morning light.  The sight of it made her catch her breath, and her chest closed tightly, heralding the beginning of tears.  

Legolas had given it to her.  The morning he had left Rivendell with the Fellowship he had awoken her just after dawn, and pressed the smooth silver into her sleep-warmed hand.  He had not said a word as he had done so; he had simply drawn her into his arms and laid his lips against her temple in a soft kiss.  Their goodbyes had been private; only a couple of hours later she looked her last upon him in the courtyard as he left with the others.  In the days after he had left, she had studied every groove and whorl in the silver, examined every tiny facet of the green stone in the center of it.  She wondered on its origin, its meaning, but the more she thought on it, the less important it had come to be.  He had given her a token, something tangible to remind her of their love when chances were that she would never see his face again in this lifetime.

It lay facedown on the blanket now, its green stone hidden from view.  And it sight of it lying thus, as if tossed to the ground and forgotten, compelled her.  It was familiar now; more familiar than it had ever been.  Her breath came a little faster, and she blinked hard as her vision swam a little.  "Lily," she breathed.  A memory stirred, and she knew immediately that the memory was not her own, but that of Lily.  The woman she had been, hundred of lifetimes ago.  The first woman Legolas had ever loved.  But the memory was not happy.  She blinked again, and saw a wooded glen, a small creek.  And Legolas in front of her, his expression anguished.

_"No!" _

_She had turned to go, to leave him for good, but his voice had made her stop.  __"Please, you are not making this easy—" _

_"You would break the vow we made to one another!  That should not be an easy task! I will not let you go!" _

_She turned slowly around to face him, and was startled to see him standing directly before her.  __"Please." She felt her voice break, and she took a shaking breath.  Her resolve nearly crumbled when he reached for her, his hands grasping her shoulders. "This was never meant to be. Please release me." _

_"No!" His voice was hard, angry, almost but not quite covering his pain. His fingers tightened on her and he gave her a little shake. "No, I do not release you." He pulled her closer, and she turned her head to avoid his lips, his frantic kisses. _

_With a sob she wrenched herself out of his grasp, backing up a step or two as he came toward her. "No!" she cried. She could hardly bear to look at him, though she was half-blinded by her tears. Reaching into a pocket, she pulled out the jewel he had given her all those years ago, holding it out to him without looking at it, or him. "Here, I return this to you." __  
  
_

_"No," he said in a harsh whisper. _

_"Take it." _

_She hazarded a glance at his face, and was immediately sorry she had. His features were twisted in confusion and sorrow and anger; he simply shook his head dumbly at her. For a moment she wavered. He loved her, did he not? And she loved him, had loved him almost since that moment he had knelt before her and smiled gently as she cowered in the forest. Perhaps leaving him was a mistake.  Perhaps… _

_She squeezed her eyes closed and clamped her teeth together. No. She was growing older with each passing day, while he remained forever unchanged. Soon enough she would be withered and weak with age, and he would look on her with disgust.  He would wish he had given his heart to one of his own people, and he would bitterly regret his vow. She could not endure the slow decay of his love for her. It was better to end it now, quickly. Opening her hand, she let the ornament fall from her hand. It caught the sun briefly as it tumbled and then fell face down in the dirt. She turned away once more...___

Isobel blinked hard, and she was once again in her small bedroom in Minas Tirith.  She stared down at the silver amulet, lying face down on the floor.  It had been Lily's, she realized. It looked like an overlooked, forgotten thing, just as it had looked when Lily had dropped it into the dirt all those years ago.  She had left Legolas then, abandoned him.  And now, in fleeing Minas Tirith, Isobel was doing the same.

Now she understood the nagging feeling, the certainty that she should stay.

She scooped up the amulet and went to the window.  She could not see past the houses in this street, but she knew what lay beyond them to the east: Mordor. A darkness seemed always to hang over those mountains, like a storm that hovers but does not break. That was where Legolas was going; he could be there even now.  The sight of those mountains, and the thought of him there, terrified her daily, but at that moment his courage inspired hers.  She wanted to stay, to face her end bravely, as he certainly did.  Lily had abandoned him once.  She would not see the same thing happen to him again.

But what could she do?

"Are you ready, my dear?" Isobel whirled at the voice, to see Arvess standing in her doorway, looking harried. The older woman looked at Isobel, and her face relaxed in a kind smile; she seemed to understand Isobel's reluctance.  "There's no help for it, I am afraid," she said with a rueful shake of her head.  "We must go. We will be safe with my sister in Lebennin."

Isobel nodded. "I know. It is only that..." Her voice choked off, and she shook her head.  She held the amulet tighter, and the edges of little silver leaves dug into her palm.  "I know."  Her voice was small.

"No use crying over what cannot be changed." Arvess joined Isobel by the window, looking out onto the busy scene. Clucking her tongue against her teeth, she said, "By nightfall there will be no one left in the city but soldiers and healers. Pity." She turned away and stepped briskly to the hall. "Bring your bag, my dear, we must leave very soon," she called back to Isobel as she went on about her business.

Isobel stared after Arvess long after she had left the room, her eyes seeing nothing.  Her heart raced as plans and possibilities spun through her mind.  Arvess probably had no idea, but she had solved all of Isobel's problems. Her frozen expression turned into a long, slow smile, and she turned back to the window. She looked toward the east once more, in the direction of the blackness that lingered over Mordor.

"I'm staying, my love," she whispered. An odd sense of joy surged through her. She would not leave with the others. She would remain in Minas Tirith.

***

Once she determined to do it, staying behind was easier than she had thought. 

"Are you certain, then?" Arvess tossed the question over her shoulder while she bundled her youngest child into the wagon. He had only begun to walk a handful of weeks ago, and his exuberance for his new-found talent had made him next to impossible to manage. He squirmed out of his mother's arms, and Isobel darted forward to grasp him just before he tumbled out of the wagon.

"Yes, I am certain," she said, settling the toddler between his sisters. "If war is coming, the Houses of Healing will need any available hands. I would like to be of some use."

Arvess regarded her for a moment, then nodded. "I understand," she said. A small smile touched her lips. "In some ways I envy you," she said quietly. "I would like to stay myself. To leave without Saeldir..." She blinked hard, and her eyes shone.

Isobel pulled the older woman into an embrace. "Your children need you," she whispered. "They need your strength now. Get them to safety.  Your husband will come back to you."

Arvess nodded, allowing herself a moment to receive comfort from Isobel, then she straightened and blinked her tears away. She took a deep breath, then another. "Watch over yourself," she said, squeezing Isobel's hand one last time. Isobel nodded, and watched as they departed, the wagon joining the others. She walked to the street and followed the wagon a short way down the road.

She watched it until it turned the corner, then retreated back into the house, dropping her bundle in the corner by the door. She would have to go to the Houses of Healing and offer what poor skills she had. They would allow her to help, would they not? She had no skills at healing, this was true, but she could fetch and carry, and run errands, even wash bandages.  Surely they would not turn her away.

Perhaps, she thought, staring out her window once more as the last of the carts creaked past and rolled down the street, perhaps she should wait a little while. Just until the evacuees had left the city. If she had no way to leave, they would have no choice but to let her stay, let her help. Yes, that was a very good plan.

Her mind made up, she scurried up to the upper floor of the house, and then up a small ladder that led to a small attic and out onto the roof.  The roof was used more than she would have thought, for storage, and for the children's games; Arvess had told Isobel that they even slept up here on the hottest summer nights. Up here, one had a better view of much of the lower levels of the city, as well as the fields and roads stretching before it. Isobel stood looking toward the south, not toward the darkness beyond the mountains this time, but to the road, now choked with carts and wagons and people on foot, all heading south.

She lost track of time as the seemingly endless line of refugees left the city. Noise in the streets gradually died down as the last of the women and children and old men left, until she felt completely alone.  The sun was high in the sky when the stream of people and vehicles began to slow, and finally trickled to a stop.

Shifting her attention, she looked down into the street, the silence and emptiness giving it a strange, ghostly air. In the few weeks she had been here, she had grown accustomed to the sounds of city life. According to Saeldir and Arvess, the city was less crowded than it had been in the past, but to Isobel, used to life on a large farm and small surrounding towns, it seemed busy and bustling and full of life. Now there was only silence, and it chilled her.

The sound of booted feet startled her out of her thoughts and made her flinch. She upbraided herself as a company of guards came into view at the end of the street. She breathed a sigh of relief, but still she slipped into the garret, out of sight of the troops below. They were going house to house, checking to ensure that all had gotten safely out of the city.  Isobel bit her lip, feeling uncomfortably as if she were hiding, but unwilling to give explanations. She should go downstairs, so she could be at the door when the soldiers arrived. But her body did not listen to her mind, and so she stood frozen, waiting. She watched from a small window and followed their progress from house to house, and even though she was expecting it, the knock at the door made her jump. She pressed herself against the wall as they entered the house; she could no longer see them, but she could hear them downstairs. She listened to boots clomp through the house, heard the soldiers talking to one another.

"Nothing, sir. Just this one bundle. Appears to be nothing but women's clothing."

"Not enough room on the cart, it seems." The second voice, older than the first, sighed. "Not the first house where things have been left behind. Nor will it be the last."

The soldiers left soon after that, and Isobel drew a long deep breath.  That was it, then. No turning back now. She took a tentative step, then another, but her legs shook so that she ended up sinking down to sit on the floor. The reality of what she had just done began to come to her, in small pieces at first, then in one large rush. This was going to be the end. The End. The city would not have been evacuated over a small skirmish. The evil that hung to the east was not an idle threat. Legolas, the hobbits, and the rest had not set out from Rivendell on a lark. Darkness was coming. And it looked as though Minas Tirith may well be the last stand against that darkness. 

And now she was in Minas Tirith. What had she been thinking? What did she hope to accomplish? Hers were not healer's hands, nor could she wield a sword and fight like a warrior. If evil overtook the city she would be hunted down and slain. There would be no mercy for the likes of her.

The garret had grown hot, and her breath came faster in the stuffy, close air. She wrapped her arms around herself and curled her knees under her, fighting for calm. Panic would do nothing for her, she told herself sternly. Yet panic lingered. The sun swam through the sky, and threw long shadows into the garret, but she did not notice. She noticed nothing until she heard the horns. 

Her head jerked up at the sound. She scrambled to her feet to look over the rail, all manner of mad thoughts racing through her head. Was this the attack, then? The beginning of the end?   
  


No, it could not be. She could see many people, more than she would have thought were left in the city, gathering around the gates, and there was a ripple of excitement, of anticipation in the air. Curiosity took the place of alarm, and she turned and plunged down the ladder, down the stairs, and out into the street. As she hurried toward the first level of the city she saw more and more people, all heading in the same direction. There was a great throng of folk near the gates and lining the street into the city. She tried to see over the heads of those in the crowd, but she had not a hope. All she knew of what was happening was from snatches of overhead conversation. "Reinforcements!" people cried. "Reinforcements have come." 

Her eyes were drawn to two middle-aged women, the only women she had seen this afternoon, climbing the stairs to the top of the wall, and to her surprise the soldiers on guard made no attempt to stop them. She bit her lip and considered for a brief moment, before weaving her way back through the crowd to follow the women. She stayed close enough to look as if she were with them, but not so close that they would notice her or question her. She gave the guard at the wall a grateful smile, and slipped past him to find a vantage point on the wall. 

At first she could make out nothing but a cloud of dust, but gradually the cloud parted, revealing a company of marching men, led by a proud, fat, old man on a proud, fat, old horse. Shouts and cheers rose up from the crowds, and Isobel felt her heart swell. These men looked strong and fearless and well armed, and the sight of them gave her hope. They were only the first in a long line of soldiers of every type. Some on foot, bright-eyed archers with long bows; some in gleaming armor, riding haughty horses, carrying long spears and swords; some obviously little more than peasants, taking to hand whatever tools might be used as weapons. Her hope was short-lived, however, for though the gathered people cheered and hailed each new company, Isobel could feel an undercurrent of dissatisfaction, of fear, finally put into muttered words by the guards nearby. "Too few," said one to his companion. "Far too few. It will not be enough." 

Finally the new troops had all marched into the city, and the gate was shut behind them with the grinding of gears and a harsh clang. A chill wind blew, and Isobel wrapped her shawl around herself a little tighter. She let her eyes rest, almost unseeing, on the empty road and the now quiet crowd, dispersing through the quickly darkening streets. Even the soldiers had no hope, she now realized. What foolishness had possessed her, why had she stayed? But even as she asked herself this question, she raised her eyes to focus on the forbidding darkness in the east. He was there, somewhere, if he still lived. That was why she had stayed. 

She was so lost in her thoughts that she gave a little start as a hand touched her shoulder. It was the guard. "You had better be getting back to the Houses of Healing, maid," he told her. "The sun is setting. It will be a dark night." She cast one more glance to the east, then nodded her thanks. Yes, it would be a very dark night. 

As she retraced her steps back up into the city, she wondered what she should do now. She had meant to go to the Houses of Healing this day, to offer whatever poor services she could. But it was already sundown; perhaps she should just wait until tomorrow. Yes, they would probably be at supper by now, she would not like to interrupt the evening meal. This thought led her naturally to consider her own evening meal. She had no food, and Arvess had taken whatever was in the house with her, thinking that Isobel would be taken care of. Perhaps there was a little something left in the larder. Then tomorrow at first light, she would certainly present herself to the healers. 

So lost in her own concerns was she that she only vaguely noticed the two boys walking ahead of her. One had gone into a nearby house, but the other stayed in the street, looking around him and up at the houses as if to get his bearings. She had passed him by almost without a glance, but something made her spare another look over her shoulder. The sun was setting quickly, but it was not yet too dark for recognition, and she gasped in surprise and whirled to face him. 

"Pippin?"


	2. Two

Chapter Two

Isobel swayed on her feet a little, and clutched at her shawl. A few feet away, Pippin looked as stunned as she felt, staring up at her with wide, wide eyes. She tried to speak again, but could barely hear herself over her heartbeat that resounded in her ears. "Pippin?" Then he rushed forward, she dropped to her knees, and the two friends embraced, there in the twilight in the middle of the street, seeing nothing but each other.

"But...but..." She was too confused to do anything but sputter. "What are you doing here? You were supposed to be going...how did you...are all of you here? Where is everyone?" She looked around instinctively, as if she expected the rest of Pippin's companions to step out of the shadows, hardly daring to hope. Suddenly, she was very glad that she had managed to stay behind.

"No, it's just Gandalf and me," he said, making her even more confused, but before she could ask anything, he continued. "And you're not supposed to be here either. He said...well, um, I mean... You were in Rivendell, with the elves. He said - er..." He stepped back and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Why are you here, and not there?"

Isobel raised her eyebrows. "I could say the same to you, you know." She stood up again, shaking out her skirt. "Mordor is to the east of here. Did you lose your way?" She kept her words light, but her heart still pounded. Legolas...where was he? And the others?

Pippin looked up at her in momentary confusion. "Lost my...no, I haven't lost my way!" He sounded almost indignant, and his tone brought a small smile to her lips. "Gandalf and I arrived here only this morning, and I don't think he could lose his way even if he wanted to."

"You and Gandalf..." Isobel shook her head. "Why have only the two of you come? And why have you come here? Was the Ring not supposed to go to Mordor?"

He nodded firmly. "And it is. We're just not with it anymore." He spoke matter-of-factly, and Isobel realized that she had completely lost her grasp on the conversation. But luckily, he noticed her confusion. "A lot has happened since we last met," he said, his voice suddenly low and very serious. He sighed. "And I am due back with my company, or else I would explain it all to you."

"Your company?" Isobel was reduced to echoing the hobbit's words back to him helplessly. Then she noticed the way he was dressed: in the uniform of the Minas Tirith guard, albeit a miniature version of the guard's clothing. Confusion still whirled in her mind, but a measure of pride bolstered her heart. Pippin had certainly changed from the hobbit who had force-fed her sweets back in Rivendell. "Well, perhaps then, soldier of Gondor, you could escort a lady to her home, and tell her as much as you can on the way."

But they were silent for a few moments as they walked, Isobel because her mind was churning with this new information and she hardly knew what to say. She was too fainthearted to ask what she most wanted to know. Finally, she worked up the courage to say, "Tell me, what has happened?"

He sighed, and his voice sounded weary. "So much has happened, it would take much longer than a few minutes walk. "Do they-" He stopped, then went on uncertainly, "Have you heard about Boromir?"

"Oh no," she breathed, "is it true then?" She stopped in her tracks, sitting down on the stone half-wall that lined this part of the street. Although she had not known him well, she had always been grateful to him for saving her life, and had been moved by both his noble bearing and the obvious burden of worry that he had borne. And Saeldir and the rest of Boromir's men had loved and respected him. How sad that such a man had died. "There have been rumors, but nobody wanted to believe. They say that the Steward grieves, but has said nothing."

Pippin only nodded and kicked at the ground, seemingly unable to speak. After clearing his throat a time or two, he managed, "Yes, it's quite true, I fear. I was there when he-" He stopped. Isobel did not ask him to continue, as she could imagine quite well what the end of his sentence would be. She blinked hard against the tears that stung her eyes, and for a long moment neither one spoke. She studied her hands, clasped hard in her lap, and wondered what to say next. How to ask what she most wanted to know, what she most feared to hear. But then her head came up, her brow furrowed.

"Yet the Ring is still on its way? So all is not lost?"

"Oh no!" Pippin shook his head vigorously. "All is not lost." His face fell though as he spoke those words, and remembering the pessimism of the soldiers that afternoon, Isobel knew what he was thinking. _Not yet..._

"Then tell me," she said hurriedly, wanting to drive away the darkness if only for a little while. "Tell me what else has happened. What you have seen, and why you are not with the Ring anymore. Did you and Gandalf leave the others to come here?" _How is Legolas,_ her mind screamed. _Does he still live?_

"Yes, we did," Pippin replied. "Not really. That is, we left most of the others in Rohan, but the Ring wasn't there. Frodo and Sam took it, about the time that Merry and I were taken, and they had to come after us."

"Frodo and Sam came after you?" Isobel's blood turned to ice. Why had the hobbits been left alone? Had something happened to everyone else?

"No, I didn't say that at all." Pippin offered his arm, and Isobel took it automatically, using his assistance to stand once more. "You must try to listen more closely. I should back up though, because I forgot to tell you about when Gandalf died. You see..."

"Died? But, you said you and he came here together."

"Ah, but he didn't really die, don't you know. He did fight a demon, though. I suppose I should go even farther back, to the beginning." He took a deep breath, and plunged in. "Let's see, there was the walking, and the evil wolves, and the monster in the water that tried to kill Frodo, and the caves, and the orcs. Oh, and the demon, all wreathed in flame, that's when we lost Gandalf. Then the elves, very pleasant and helpful they were, and they gave us boats. Then more orcs, that's when Boromir...well, at any rate, we were kidnapped by orcs, Merry and I, and then we met the Ents, and went to Isengard and defeated a wizard, while the others were fighting a huge battle, and then-"

"Stop right there," Isobel insisted.  She planted herself in front of Pippin with her hands on her hips.  "I enjoy a good tale as much as the next girl," she said with a frown, "but I want to know what really happened.  You can save the bedtime stories for another time."

Pippin put on an air of injured pride, and placed his hand over his heart. "True it is, every word. Though I admit, to hear it, it does sound just a little fantastical."

"A little?" she said. She was not sure she could believe him completely, but it was clear that he had seen and done much. They had passed through the gate to the third level of the city, though, and she would likely not hear the whole, true story this night. With a small shake of her head, she began to walk again, and turned her attention to other matters more urgent. "And, what about...everyone else?"

Pippin gave her a sideways glance and in the dying light his eyes seemed to twinkle for a moment. "Ah, yes, them. Well, I meant what I said about Frodo and Sam.  They left with the Ring, and they're going into Mordor alone.  Strider and Gandalf both seem to think that it's the best plan.  Can't say that I understand that one myself, but no one's asked me.  And Gandalf came here with me, as I said. He's seemingly none the worse for dying. Strider led us for a bit, when we thought we'd lost Gandalf.  And very masterful at it, he was."  He paused for a moment, considering.

"Yes," she encouraged him. "and...?"

"And?  And Merry, of course! Oh, he's quite well, even orcs can't keep him down. And Gimli! Why, I understand he killed dozens of orcs, all on his own. Amazing.  Ah, so is this your house, then?"  He had apparently noticed her footsteps slowing as he'd talked, and now they had paused at the door to Saeldir and Arvess' house.  "Good, I've seen you safely home.  Now, I should…"

Hope swelled within her breast.  Surely he was teasing her now, so nothing could be that bad.  Could it?  She must have made some sort of huffing noise, because Pippin chuckled. "He's fine, Isobel."

The words broke something within her heart, and suddenly it was hard to breathe.  Isobel swallowed hard against the sudden lump in her throat and tried to speak. "Truly?"

"Truly." It was almost full dark now, and she could barely see him, but she felt his small hand slide into hers, squeezing gently. "He never got so much as a bruise, though I understand he killed his fair share of orcs."

Now there was no way that she could stop the relieved tears from falling.  She indulged them for a moment, closing her eyes and letting a small smile come to her face. "Where is he, Pippin?"

"Rohan. They all are, he and Gimli and Strider and Merry. They… Why are you laughing?"

For she was laughing. Isobel had dropped his hand and broken out into peals of laughter, which felt good after so many weeks of worry. When was the last time she had truly laughed? "Because I am an idiot," she finally said. "All this time, I have been looking to the east, afraid for him, for all of you, hoping that no harm had come to him." She shook her head at her own foolishness. "And he wasn't even there. I have been looking in the wrong direction all this time." 

Pippin chuckled then too. "Don't fret, Isobel," he said. "I won't tell." He squeezed her hand once more, and a thought seemed to strike him. "But you. What are you doing here?" 

She shrugged. "I did not feel right, staying in Rivendell with the elves. And if this is to be the end of all things, what safety could Rivendell offer?" She closed her eyes and saw quiet, serious-eyed Frodo and his faithful servant, alone out there somewhere.

"It's not the end yet. We hobbits are pretty tough," he said stoutly, as if seeing what was in her mind. "But that wasn't what I meant. What are you doing here, still in the city? The women and children left today, I watched them go. You should have gone too." 

"Oh. Yes. Well, I was going to go to the Houses of Healing, to offer my services." She was glad now for the darkness, for she did not want to meet his eyes. 

"But you haven't, have you?" There was just a hint of accusation in his voice, which made her feel very guilty indeed. 

"No, but you see, there was never a good time today, with the packing and…and cleaning, and the soldiers coming in." She was speaking too quickly, but she could not help herself. "So I thought tomorrow morning I would go straight there." 

He shook his head. "I don't like the sound of that, Isobel. I don't like leaving you here alone. Why don't I tell Gandalf and he can –" 

"No! No, you mustn't do that," she said, trying to speak calmly. She felt as she had on occasion as a girl when she had been caught shirking her duties, and did not relish the thought of being scolded, or perhaps even sent away. "I am sure that Gandalf has enough to worry about.  Really, it will be fine. This house belongs to the people I was staying with, I am perfectly safe here." 

"Well, I suppose you would be all right. Just for one night. But you must promise you will go to the healers first thing." 

"I will, Pippin, I promise." 

"Very well. I don't like the idea of you being here at all, not with war coming. Though, to tell the truth, I don't like the idea of being here myself. But we're here now, aren't we?" 

"That we are. Nothing to be done about it," she said lightly. 

"And now I must be off. Duty calls. But I'll come and find you again, if I may." 

Isobel nodded, then realized that he probably could not see her in the darkness. "Of course. I am more glad than I can say to see you, Pippin." 

He gave her hand a squeeze. "And I you. Go on, then." 

She slipped inside the house, but before she had even gotten the door well closed she heard a tapping on the shuttered window. She opened it a couple of inches and looked down at Pippin. "Next time," he said, " remind me to tell you about the Ents. Trees that talk!" With a parting wave, he was off.

An hour or so later, Isobel sat in a chair before the fireplace in the main room, a blanket around her shoulders, warming herself at the small fire she had dared to build in the hearth.  She kept the flame low, and prayed that the little bit of smoke coming out the chimney would pass unnoticed. Luckily she had found enough food left to stave of hunger: a part loaf of bread, some beer, a little cheese, a bit of salted meat, a few vegetables. Arvess must not have thought it worth packing up. Hardly a feast, but she was grateful for it, if a little guilty over eating someone else's food without leave. She would clean the house tomorrow, before she went to the Houses of Healing, to try to make up for what she had taken. 

She sighed once more. She really ought to go to bed, but lethargy gripped her, and she continued where she was, staring into the fire. One finger moved over the silver of the amulet she held, tracing the circle of leaves again and again. She held it up before her eyes to peer at it in the firelight, turning it to catch the light. She had found a thin piece of leather cording and threaded it through the openwork, so she could wear it around her neck. She did not want to risk losing it again.  It was all she had left of him now, and it should not languish bundled up among her other possessions.  She tied the leather cord around her neck and sighed.  A feeling of relief swept through her, as though she had been anxious all this time, and only now that the amulet was around her neck where it belonged could she relax.  The weight of it was familiar, although this was the first time she had worn it.  But she was used to such feelings; in the months that had passed since the morning she had woken up in Rivendell, she had experienced many things for the first time that were as natural and normal to her as breathing.

Those memories belonged to Lily, of course.  And as time moved on and she became more accustomed to the idea of sharing a soul with a woman long since dead, Isobel found that Lily's memories were a comfort.  She herself had had little time with Legolas, while Lily had spent most of her mortal life bound to him.  Through Lily she saw much, and remembered much.

She blinked drowsily, watching the fire burn lower.  The amulet was warm and smooth in her hand, and every so often the firelight sent a flicker of green light through the stone at its center…

_"Oh, it is beautiful indeed," she breathed, holding it up to let the sun shine through. "I do not deserve such a gift." _

_Legolas held her close against him, one hand curled around her waist, and Lily felt his cheek nuzzling her hair. "You deserve much more, but it is not just a pretty jewel." _

_"No?" _

_"No." He loosened his grip to turn her in his arms. "It is a token, a symbol. It was gifted to me on my naming day. The elves of this realm know this jewel. If you are ever in need and I am not by, you have only to show this." _

_She lifted her eyes to his face as the full import of his words sank in. Shaking her head, she said, "But why should I need help? And why would you not be here? What sort of awful things are you imagining?" _

_He said quickly, "Nothing, nothing. Do not be troubled." He kissed her brow, smoothing away the lines of worry there. "I expect no danger or darkness. I mean only that you are under my protection, and the protection of my house."_

_"I wish," she began, but found she had to stop, and swallow hard against tears. "I wish I had something of such worth to offer you. But I have not."_

_"You are wrong," he said, and his smile was gentle. "If I have your love, it is enough, and more than enough. You hold my happiness in your keeping. This jewel is nothing next to that."_

_His words warmed her and soothed her, and she laid her forehead against his neck. For a moment she lost herself to the comfort of his arms around her, his hand stroking through her hair. She opened her hand, resting against his chest, and inspected the amulet. A circle of tiny, perfectly formed leaves wove their way around and held a clear green gem. "This is truly lovely," she said. "So fine, so small, and yet so wonderfully detailed. Elves do beautiful work." _

_He made no answer, but she felt a certain tenseness in his attitude, and she looked up to find a slightly perturbed look on his face. "What is it?" she asked, suddenly curious. He only pulled a face, piquing her curiosity even further. Laughing, she poked at his chest. "I have said something amiss, tell me what it is. No, no, if you tell me it is nothing, I shall not believe you. Tell me," she wheedled. _

_"Very well, if you must know, elves did not make this piece." _

_"Oh?" she said, waiting for more. When no more was forthcoming, she prodded , "And…?" _

_Huffing, he said, "Dwarves made it." _

_That admission stopped her short, and for a moment she was speechless. __"Dwarves made it, you say? Amazing. You interest me enormously. I had no idea dwarves could do such things. After everything you have told me about them—"_

_"Yes, yes, never mind that. It hardly matters who made it. It was made, and there it is."_

_She only raised her eyebrows at him, her silence more effective than any words. He was immediately defensive. "And anyway, we have more important things to see to than this sort of thing." _

_"Oh, are you telling me this is worthless, then? A fine gift for your lady," she humphed. _

_"That was not my meaning – "_

_She did a fair imitation of his voice. "'Stumbling, bumbling dwarves,' you said, 'with little stature and less brains.'" She laughed at him boldly, heedless of his darkening look. "And yet they have wrought your name-jewel. How annoying for you." _

_"Watch your words, my flower, or I will have that trinket back," he said, but he could not keep the smile from his face, making his threat toothless. _

_She snatched it out of his reach and held it behind her, letting him back her into a tree, giggling all the while, until his mouth found hers.  Then there was nothing but the sweet warmth of his kisses, and her giggles quickly faded into soft sighs.  With one hand she clutched tightly to the jewel, and with the other she held onto him, cupping his cheek in her hand for the space of a few kisses.  Then her fingers crept to his hair, as they inevitably did, to slide through the strands of blond silk.  She heard a small sound come from his throat, and he kissed her harder, pressing her against the tree, and the rough bark dug into her back…_

Legolas let his eyes close slowly, then just as slowly opened them again. For a moment he was startled; his mind had been a great many miles and hundreds of years away, and to find himself in the present day was a little unsettling. But the night was quiet; watch had been posted, but few rested.  An unease lay over their camp, and everyone was wary, frightened.  He himself did not feel the fear that oppressed the others, but he could hear the unfriendly hissing and whispering that surrounded them.  Even Gimli, used to darkness and deep places, had been glad to see the sky again.  The dwarf was near, leaning against a large rock, trying to look at ease, but Legolas could see his tension, the way his eyes darted around him, as if expecting enemies to attack at any moment.  A mere month ago Legolas would have found something biting to say, but oddly enough he was not now inclined toward sarcasm. 

He allowed his mind to drift, but true rest eluded him. He thought instead of his love, calming thoughts that filled him with peace.  He had been thinking on the evening he had given Lily his name-jewel, a symbol of his love, a symbol of his house that would mean her protection if dark days came.  But, he admitted to himself now as he had then, he had given it to her for purely selfish reasons as well. Wearing the symbol marked her as his. And years later when she had thrown it back at his feet, cast it away from her as she had cast him from her life, the hurt had been deep. For hundreds of years he had kept the amulet, never allowing himself to take another thing for granted, for anything could be lost. 

Never had he imagined that he would be able to return the amulet to her. Just after dawn, on a cold winter's morning in Rivendell, he had drawn the amulet from his pocket and placed it into the hand of the sleeping woman who shared his bed. Isobel's hand had closed around it, but as she awoke, the eyes that blinked up at him were Lily's. And even though she had looked at the small jewel for the first time, a part of her recognized it. She had reached up for him with a smile, and he had allowed himself to be drawn into her embrace. 

Lily. Isobel. Two very different women who shared the same soul. Legolas still did not understand how such a thing could be, but he knew better than to question it. Elves only loved once, and through some strange whim of fate he had been given back the woman he loved.  And although that thought was something that warmed him like nothing else, he now frowned a little, thinking on all he had seen today.  The path under the mountains had been terrifying for his companions, and he could feel the hate and malevolence of those cursed beings that surrounded them, but now he realized that they had once been only men.  Now they were lost souls.  Just as Lily had been, since the day he had refused to let her go. Was she really so different from these spirits? 

He settled back and closed his eyes, thinking once more of Lily. But she was gone. In her place was Isobel. A little taller, her body fuller, her skin darker but her hair lighter. Older than Lily had been when he first loved her, less trusting and more witty. Isobel was the woman he loved now, although she carried Lily's spirit. He thought of her now, safe in Rivendell, far from where this war could touch her. 

Legolas smiled again. He could fall; the battle to come could be the one that claimed his life. But Isobel was safe. And for now, that was enough. 


	3. Three

Chapter Three

Dawn came at last, but the new day did little to lighten hearts. The sky was unnaturally dark, and Aragorn gazed up at it in mounting alarm before hurrying the company on its way. Legolas shared a bite or two of the precious lembas with Gimli, and then they were off.

Much of that ride was a blur of rocks and stones and brown winter grass and villages shut tight against them, and against the dead that flew with them. Days and nights blended together, the storm clouds of Mordor making the days barely lighter than the nights. They stopped only now and then to rest the horses, thundering out of the foothills of the mountains and then turning east. Aragorn was leading them to the Anduin, though he did not know what awaited them there. None of them did.

Legolas drove Arod on, feeling no weariness for himself, but oppressed nonetheless by uncertainty. This foul darkness of Mordor filled his heart with fear when the cursed spirits of men could not. Perhaps they were already too late. But still they rode on.

It was not until they passed over the fields of Lebennin that he felt a change, though he was unsure if that change was welcome.

There was a strange scent upon the air. A clean scent, the scent of wind, but with a tang that teased him, gave him pause. It came upon him gradually, so he was not aware of when he had first noticed it. It was simply, suddenly, ___there_, as if it had always been. He allowed his horse to slow, and he and Gimli fell behind the others, as his head slowly turned. Toward the scent.

And toward the sound. For now he could hear the cries. Softly at first, almost an afterthought of a breeze, but then more distinct, more clear. The high-pitched sweet cries of birds, birds that he had never heard before. But when he allowed his eyes to close, he could see them: small and white, with long slender wings. They glided effortlessly upon the air currents, buoyed up by a passing breeze, then beat their wings lazily, beaks opening to emit that piercing, sweet cry.

The cry of the birds pained him, as though the sound alone stole his breath and stopped his heart. His eyes swept the horizon, searching. Another cry pierced his soul, and the pain was so acute he thought he might weep. But the pain only lasted a moment; it faded to be replaced with longing. For while the sounds pained him, and the scent threatened to overwhelm him, he felt compelled to follow. There was something, over that next ridge. Somewhere he needed to be, somewhere ___else..._

"Taking a rest then, are we?" The gruff voice of the dwarf behind him brought him out of his reverie, and he blinked hard. The scent was gone. He could no longer hear the birds. Gimli shifted impatiently in the saddle, and the horse nickered.

Legolas glanced over his shoulder with a smile he did not quite feel. "Of course not," he said. "Elves do not tire."

Gimli huffed. "No, but they do dally quite a bit. Are we going or not?"

"We are."

At last the riders crested a hill and saw the city of Pelargir below, hugging the river. From this distance Legolas could see many ships and boats dotting the harbor, but as they rode closer the city itself rose up, blocking his view of the water.  
  
The city was large, and very old, for a city of men. Fine mansions and tall public buildings of stone greeted his gaze. They were grand and imposing, but they were empty, and the streets were quiet and deserted. It was apparent that the people of Pelargir had gone into hiding, if they had not left the city entirely. The hooves of the horses clattered on cobbled streets as they rode toward the water, and the city seemed empty, though they had driven their foe before them.

But as they closed in on the river, the sounds of battle reached their ears, faintly at first, but then steadily louder. The character of the city also changed as they drew near to the river; the carved stone and elegant houses began to give way to smaller, more dilapidated dwellings, made of mud brick or wood. Warehouses and shops flanked the streets here, and the very air felt damp. Everywhere the smell of fish and rot and dankness assaulted him.

Soon enough they began to see groups of men fighting, the warriors of the city and the mariners of Umbar. Most fled as Aragorn and his gruesome company came into sight, but the river was near and soon there was nowhere left to run. Chaos reigned as men and beasts filled the narrow streets.

All around them men fought the ghost army, slashing and stabbing uselessly at shadows. They screamed and fell and died, their attitudes those of men hewn by swords and spears. But Legolas could see no visible wounds on their bodies.

Though the undead army fought and overcame many of the Corsairs, there was still plenty of work for Aragorn and his company. They fought from building to building, down close alleyways and narrow streets, working slowly toward the harbor and the ships.

"This beast is useless here, Legolas," Gimli shouted over the din. "Let the poor creature go, or let me off!"

Gimli was right, these streets were not made for fighting on horseback, and he would much rather have the dwarf and his axe beside him than behind him. He quickly helped Gimli down and vaulted off Arod, sending the horse off with a whispered word of safety. Then he turned to see Gimli already disappearing down the street. He did not know how a dwarf of such stature could move so quickly, but he had to break into a run in order to catch up. The streets were too narrow and jammed with movement to allow him to use his bow, but his knives flashed, moving with swift deadliness in the gloom.

Ahead and to his right he heard a roar, and he spared a glance in that direction in time to see Gimli charging into a nearly fallen-down building, his axe at the ready. Legolas swore softly, finished off his enemy with barely a thought, and sped through the melee, dodging blows and blades to follow his companion into the darkness of the warehouse. 

Light seeped in through cracks in the walls and roof, and Legolas's eyes immediately adjusted to the gloom, and he ducked a blow from a man lurking inside the doorway. With a quick upward thrust of his knife he gutted the man, and he hurried to find Gimli. The battle cries of the dwarf were clear and close, but the warehouse was a maze of boxes and crates piled high. 

Working his way through the walls of crates, he saw Gimli rounding a corner just ahead, shouting curses and insults. He whirled on Legolas, then relaxed slightly when he saw who it was. 

"These are no men," the dwarf cried in frustration, "they are nothing but rats, cowering in holes!" 

Legolas allowed himself a smirk. "Will they not fight you?" With a swift movement his bow was in his hand and an arrow nocked, and he felled a man coming around the corner. Smirk still intact, he shook his head. "Then it falls to _you_ to fight _them_." 

Gimli fairly trembled with suppressed rage. "I was _waiting_ for that one!"

Legolas shrugged, drawing another arrow. "There will be others." His eyes swept the darkness of the warehouse, and the dim light glinted off of several pairs of eyes, some waiting patiently, others already moving toward them. "Many others." Gimli growled in frustration but followed the elf's gaze, his axe at the ready, and when a man launched himself at them from the shadows he was more than prepared. Legolas leapt neatly to the side, shooting over Gimli's head into the darkness. A distant cry told him he had found the man he sought. 

Then the quiet, semi-dark gloom erupted into full-fledged battle. The hiding men had obviously perceived that they were outclassed by their opponents, and instead strove to overpower them in numbers. Gimli's axe flashed again and again, while Legolas found himself looking for higher ground, craving room to draw his bow again. 

Knowing that Gimli could well handle the men, especially since so few could approach at once down the narrow aisles, Legolas followed his instincts. He finished off a couple of men that were in his way, and clambered up the stack of crates, easily finding hand- and footholds. In mere seconds he was on top of the stack, peering over the edge at the fighting far below. Gimli wielded his axe mightily, and Legolas concentrated on picking off men here and there, smiling grimly at their shouts of fear and confusion. 

Soon the dwarf's axe and the rain of arrows drove the enemy back, and they scattered once more, scurrying, as Gimli had said, like rats back through the maze of crates. Gimli's growl of frustration floated up to him, and he found himself almost wanting to growl in agreement. 

The boxes swayed a little, and Legolas shifted his body to counterbalance the movement. He glanced down to see his comrade testing the wall of boxes tentatively. Gimli glanced up, and they shared a look of understanding. 

Legolas raised an eyebrow. "Were you planning to warn me?" 

Gimli's laugh was grim. "With your magnificent elven reflexes? It would be a wasted effort." His sarcasm, however, was not wasted, and Legolas acknowledged it with a slight roll of his eyes. "Better jump for it," the dwarf shouted unnecessarily, and put his shoulder to the wall. 

Legolas felt the boxes shift and sway beneath him, and leapt upward, catching one of the rafters and swinging himself up easily. He watched as the wall swayed more, dipped, then a tremendous crash sounded as the box wall tumbled down. The stack of crates hit another stack nearby, which also began to sway and then fall. The second stack hit a third stack, and on and on until the warehouse filled with the sounds of splintering crates and the startled cries of men. After a few minutes, the cacophony died down, leaving silence. Legolas's eyes swept the building, and he watched dust shimmer in the slim shafts of light. 

He feared for a moment that Gimli had buried himself, dwarf-like, under a mountain of broken wood, but as the dust settled Legolas saw him standing stoutly before the chaos he had created, still clutching his axe, and offering battle to those men still standing. Legolas dropped lightly to the ground beside him, ready to finish this job. 

Even as the remainder of the enemy clambered over the crates and boards, Legolas heard a commotion out in the streets, and shouting, and Aragorn crying above the rest, "Fire! They are setting the ships on fire! Stop them!" He looked down at Gimli. 

"Can you manage this?" he asked. 

Gimli's only answer was a nod and a grunt as he braced himself against the coming attack. Without another word Legolas was in the street once more, racing toward the river. Several of Aragorn's men had broken off their fighting to chase down the Corsairs, who had decided that if defeat was inevitable they would send their ships to the bottom of the river. Legolas spied a small group of men running toward a large ship, their torches sputtering, and he pursued them, drawing his bow and felling one even as they ran. 

He shot again, catching a second man in the back just as he had drawn back his arm to throw his torch onto the ship. The man fell with a scream, but as he fell he flung the torch, which arced through the air and disappeared onto the deck of the ship. Legolas caught his breath; time was running out now. He shot quickly and dispassionately, the men and torches falling swiftly under the barrage of arrows. He ran for the ship, his eyes fastened on the plume of smoke that had begun to rise above the deck. Bodies littered his path, so he leapt to the side, running smoothly up the taut rope that moored the ship to the dock. He vaulted the side of the ship easily, bending to scoop up the torch before his feet had even hit the deck. He whirled and threw, tossing the torch into the water, where a hiss marked its landing. He stepped closer to the rail and watched the place where the torch had struck the water, allowing himself a sigh of relief. 

He sensed the movement before he heard a sound, and dodged to the left as a sword bit into the rail beside him. He spun around, drawing his knife and slaying his opponent before he could get his sword loose. From the corner of his eye he saw several more men rushing at him from below. The whisper of the air gave him warning, and he dove for the deck, ducking the long oar swung by another one of the sailors. He aimed a brutal kick at the man's knee, and heard the satisfying crunch of breaking bones. That man crumpled with an agonized cry, and Legolas slit his throat as he fell. 

Immediately he rolled away, barely avoiding the swords of the other men. A swift upward thrust finished one, but before he could rise from the deck a vicious blow from a heavy boot caught him in the back. Pain rushed through his body, stealing his breath and blurring his vision and momentarily crippling him. A bemused resignation filled his mind, and he could only watch as the man lifted his sword to strike. 

With a grunt, the man was thrown backwards. It took a heartbeat or two for Legolas to realize that his death was to be postponed for a time. He was silent for a moment, trying to catch his breath, and for once not too proud to show it. He propped himself up on his elbows, choking down a groan, and looked on as Gimli swaggered over to the Corsair slumped against the side of the ship and pulled his throwing axe from the dead man's forehead, calmly wiping the blood on the man's tunic. Once he had his axe securely back in his belt, Gimli heaved the corpse up and over the side, turning to Legolas with a smirk. 

Before the dwarf could speak, Legolas said, "I thought you were clearing the storage buildings."

"Eh, I finished." He offered a hand and heaved Legolas to his feet. "It occurred to me that you might need help here."

By now Aragorn and his men had thrown back the enemy and had gained the river, with most of the ships still intact. Legolas and Gimli were neither one sailors, and they could only stand well out of the way and watch in bewilderment as those more knowledgeable began the controlled chaos that would get the ships underway. The true darkness of night fell, and still the men labored, while Legolas sought a quiet corner. He retreated into himself, sending his mind to seek the stars while his body healed. The last thing he saw with his waking eyes was Gimli sitting nearby, his back to Legolas, his head wreathed in smoke from his borrowed pipe. He almost looked as if he were on guard.

OOO

Isobel was ashamed of herself. She took one last swipe at the floor with the broom and then put it away in its corner. The little house was clean, so clean it practically shone. It should, after all: she had been cleaning it for four days now.

The first day was easy. She awoke later than usual after the evening of her reunion with Pippin. The sun was not shining brightly through the windows the way it usually did, and the resulting gloom had made her sleep late. After a meager breakfast, she had every intention of reporting to the Houses of Healing - she had promised Pippin, after all. But she wanted to neaten the house first. Saeldir and Arvess had been so kind to her, she would be very rude indeed to leave their home uncared for. She rolled up her sleeves and got to work, scrubbing and mopping, dusting and polishing. Afternoon rolled into evening, and she was startled by a knock on the door. Pippin was there, his face accusing, his hands balancing a tray of food.

"You said you would go to the Houses of Healing today."

"I know." She dipped her eyes to the floor, and her cheeks flushed with embarrassed heat.

"But you promised," he said. His voice was as stern as a hobbit's could be. "I went there looking for you, and they didn't know you. You hadn't gone there at all. But you had said that you would - "

"Yes, I know," she said again, a little louder this time. "I am sorry. I will go tomorrow. No, I will," she said, almost laughing at his dubious expression. She looked pointedly at the tray, trying to ignore the mad rumbling of her stomach. "Is that for me?"

Pippin sighed the sigh of a martyr and followed her into the great room of the house. "I shouldn't give this to you, you know. I'm not sure that you deserve it. But it seems that you require more looking after than I had thought."

He had forgiven her for not going to the Houses of Healing that first day. He had also forgiven her for not going the second day, and the day after that. Every day she had found something to do, something that required her urgent attention, much more than presenting herself as a healer to those who would certainly know better. And now, on this third day, she wondered what she had ever been thinking. Why had she stayed behind? She was no healer, and had no talents to offer. And despite her brave thoughts the day the city had been evacuated, what glory would there really be in dying sooner rather than later?

The past several days had crawled by, full of hour upon hour of boredom, punctuated by the odd attack of fear. The city was strangely quiet for a city at war, though when she went to the roof to look down on the lower levels, she could see the activity as the soldiers readied for the coming battle. They went about their tasks grimly, almost hopelessly. She wanted to stop looking, she wanted, in fact, to curl up in bed with the covers over her head and wish this all away, but she felt herself drawn up to watch, again and again. Her feelings varied wildly between wanting something, anything, to happen, if only to relieve the unbearable apprehension, and stark terror at the thought of battle.

She had managed to keep off the roof this whole day, pottering uselessly about the already spotless house. She became aware of a rising tension in the city. More shouted orders drifted up from the lower levels, the sounds of horses and men moving up and down the city increased. She purposely kept herself from the roof, nervously worrying at her fear like a scab, until the shouts began to turn to screams, and she could hear the groaning of machinery, and the crash of stone against stone. Though her mind told her to hide, to cower in the corner, she had to see, she had to know.

Up the stairs and the ladder she hurried, afraid of what she might see, but unexpectedly excited as well. The sight that greeted her eyes was beyond astonishing. The days had grown steadily darker, until there was no sun at all, only a continual grey twilight, but there was more than enough light to see. While she had swept the floor and dusted trinkets, the enemy had poured over the Pelennor. Orcs filled the vast plain, so very many of them, scurrying to and fro like cockroaches. Her mouth dropped open in horrified fascination, and she was drawn to the rail at the edge of the roof, unable to tear her eyes away. She could see flames here and there below, eerily muted in the gloom, and small missiles arched high over the wall and fell in the lower level of the city, some falling on the second and even the third level.

Isobel stared blankly at the scene before her. The hopelessness of the soldiers was now clear; they could never win this war. She shook her head in disbelief, backing away from the wall. Cowering in the corner, she thought, really was the best option after all. She turned to flee down into the house, but suddenly something landed with a dull thud near the doorway, and rolled into the shadows. She shrank back with a gasp, dropping to the ground and covering her head, and she waited. Her eyes hurt from being shut so tight, but still she waited. Her own breath sounded ragged to her, and her heart raced painfully. But nothing happened. 

After a lifetime of waiting, she lifted her head and opened her eyes, peering into the darkness. Warily she crawled forward, expecting the thing to burst into flame by some evil art, but still, nothing happened. 

She crept closer, and finally laughed a little at her fear. It was a rock, surely. There was no fire, nothing but a small red smear near the doorway. She reached out her hand to touch it... 

And found herself staring into the face of a soldier of Gondor. But only the face. For the missile in the doorway was a severed head, still wearing his helmet. The face was smashed beyond recognition, but the eyes were open and staring. 

A shriek tore from her throat, and she recoiled so violently that she lost her footing, tumbling to the ground, and in the next heartbeat she launched herself backward, clawing for the railing at the edge of the roof. She clung to it and panted desperately, trying to draw in deep breaths of air to calm the rolling of her stomach. Her knees shook, and she had to fight to keep upright. 

She had to get out of there. But she could not move, could not make herself walk forward to the door and toward the grotesque thing in the shadows. She was trapped on the roof. 

More missiles hurtled past her head, and she instinctively ducked down. They landed almost silently, but to Isobel's horror they left fire in their wake. The flames took hold quickly on the pitch and thatching that sealed the roof, and she watched with rising terror as the fire grew in size and strength. It would not be long before the roof, and then the house, was engulfed. Suddenly the head barring her path did not seem so frightening, and she launched herself toward the doorway.

Another crash brought her to her knees, gasping in bewilderment. A rumbling filled her ears, and she screamed as the whole house shuddered violently once more. Isobel grasped blindly for support, but the world had gone mad, and it felt as though the earth had opened up to swallow her. What had seemed so solid and secure only a moment ago gave way beneath her feet, and her own screams mixed with the thunder of falling stone. 

Then she was sliding, falling, flailing helplessly, battered by stone and choked by dust, her heart near to bursting with fear. Suddenly she landed with a dreadful thump. Her mind spun, vertigo and fright stealing away all reason. Was she not dead? She looked about her wildly. Relief seeped into her as she realized she had landed on the roof of the house directly below Saeldir's, on the second level. She felt bruised and sore, but she was alive. Hardly daring to believe it, she struggled to sit up, gulping in great sobbing gasps of air. She was alive. 

With a loud crack, the roof evaporated beneath her, and she fell.


	4. Four

Chapter Four

The world was falling all around her: dirt, ashes, wood and stone, crumbling and collapsing.  The crashes were deafening, and Isobel wanted to clap her hands over her ears to dull the sound.  But she could not.  She was falling.  Her arms and legs scrabbled wildly for any kind of hold, but her hands grasped nothing but air.  She felt the pitch in her stomach first, then the rest of her body as she fell, plummeting toward the ground.

She did not even know she was screaming, but she knew when she stopped; her voice was choked off abruptly as her body jerked upward.  No, not upward, she stayed still, while the rest of the roof tumbled around her.  Her arm was caught on something, and the sudden stop made it feel as through it were being wrenched from her body.  She struggled against the pain, disoriented, trying to free her arm and escape the pain, even though it would mean falling again.  She tried to breathe, but the dust and smoke only made her cough so hard that tears clouded her eyes.

"Be still, you foolish girl!"

The voice was so commanding and angry that she immediately obeyed, her body going limp, her other arm falling to her side.  She blinked hard to clear her vision, and then gathered her wits enough to look down.  She dangled over a settling pile of rubble that had once been someone's home.  Her mind cleared, and she realized that her arm was not snagged on a timber; rather, a strong, wiry hand around her wrist supported her weight. She looked up to see a soldier leaning over a portion of the wall that was miraculously still intact.  Fires burned around them, and she could barely see him through the surrounding gloom.

"Give me your other hand," the soldier barked.  He sounded exasperated to be saddled with such an addle-brained female.  "I cannot hold you for long!"

She struggled to do as she was told, but she felt weak; her free arm was heavier than stone.  After a few tries she was able to raise it to him, and the man pulled her bodily up, grunting and cursing with the effort.  She tried to help, kicking her feet to find purchase on the wall, but another shouted curse from the soldier made her still her movements.  He dragged roughly over the top of the wall, but she was too shaken to feel any more pain.  She collapsed at his feet, gasping and sobbing with relief.

The soldier took no pity on her.  Before she could even raise her head to face him, to form any words of thanks, he exploded.  "What are you doing here?"  He reached down with one arm and hauled her up, setting her none too gently on her feet.  "You women were supposed to be gone days ago. Have we not more than enough to do without minding silly women?"

"I—I am sorry," she managed shakily, her gratitude transformed into apology. "I am—I was—the Houses of Healing—" She shook out her skirt and ducking her head, feeling the lie of her words.

"Then you should be there, and not running through the city while it is under siege." He paused, looking closely at her as she wiped a sleeve over her dusty and tear-stained face.  He sighed.  "Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice only marginally less gruff.

Of course she was hurt.  She had tumbled from two rooftops in the space of a few moments, and had narrowly missed getting hit with a severed head.  She was alone in a strange city at war, and she did not believe that she would survive the night.  She wanted to scream, to cry, but the hard looked in his eyes quelled her hysteria.  She allowed herself a few quick sniffles as she took stock of herself.  Her body ached, and her arm was sore.  She was most likely bruised in a dozen places or more, but she was whole. 

She shook her head.  "No.  No, I am not hurt."  She finally dared to look him in the face, and was surprised to see that he was old, quite old.  Somebody's grandfather, certainly, pressed into service for war. A wave of pity swept through her, and she thought that she might weep all over again. 

Her feelings must have been apparent on her face, for his mouth twisted in a scowl.  "What are you doing still here, then, woman?  They are in need of you at the Healers, now more than ever. Off with you!"

She tried to answer, but only a squeak escaped her throat.  She bowed her head and slipped around him, but his voice stopped her once again.

"You, girl! Are you blind?" She turned back at his call.  He had stooped to help up a soldier who lay against the remains of the wall.  She had not even seen him before, and now she gasped.  The poor man's leg was bloody and mangled, and he grunted in pain as her rescuer heaved him up, motioning Isobel to come closer.

"You can at least help him to the Healers, can you not?" He draped the wounded man's arm over Isobel's shoulders.  The sudden weight made her stumble, but she braced her legs beneath her and kept the two of them upright.  The wounded man leaned heavily on her, though he tried to hold his own weight on his unwounded leg.  Her heart felt stuck in her throat; she had never seen violence like this so close, so real.  But the younger soldier beside her breathed raggedly in her ear, and a wave of emotion swept through her.  This man depended on her.  He depended on her for care, and she would see him safe.  Emboldened by this new resolve, she started off, she and her charge both staggering painfully.

"Oh!" She stopped suddenly, and looked back.  She had never even thanked the old man who had saved her life.  But he had already gone.  She sighed heavily and tightened her hold on the soldier who leaned on her.  Together they lurched toward the road, Isobel glancing around her.  Shame flushed hotly through her – she was not even sure where she was, or how to find the Houses of Healing.  Her breathing quickened as panic swirled through her brain.

"Is something amiss?"

The voice of the soldier startled her, and his question made her want to laugh. Something amiss? Only the whole world, she thought to herself. But she forced herself to swallow the hysteria that threatened. The sixth level, that was where the healers were. She had only to go up, surely she could find it.

"No, no, of course not," she answered, realizing how ridiculous her words were as soon as they left her mouth. But the boy – for he was little more that a child, perhaps sixteen years old – seemed to take some comfort. "What is your name?" she asked gently.

"Rodon," he answered, hissing in pain as they stumbled over stones in their path. "I am sorry," he said, "I know I am a burden."

"You are no burden," she said automatically, gritting her teeth against the pain in her back and legs.  She bent a little, sliding his arm further across her shoulders so she could bear more of his weight.  A glance down at his mangled leg made her stomach twist, and she quickly looked away.  "Do not worry," she said, forcing herself to stay calm.  This man was young, possibly mortally wounded; he did not need to hear her panic, for he probably felt enough on his own.  "We will be there soon."

They had reached the end of the side street and she gasped as they came out to the main thoroughfare. She needn't have worried about finding the Healers. A slow but steady stream of men walked the road to the higher levels of the city, some tottering along under their own power, some aided or carried by their comrades. Isobel stared at the scene, her feet momentarily frozen. So many were wounded, a good number of them severely. How could the city hold, with so many strong men brought low?  Despair swept through her, but she forced herself to start walking again. She sighed at the uselessness of even going on, but to stop, to give up now, would be just as pointless. And also unforgivable: she was not alone.  Giving up now, with Rodon in her care, would be as cowardly as it would be deplorable.  Better to struggle on, even if the road led nowhere.

Despair and duty did not end her fear of death and pain, however, and she gave a little whimper as a large rock whistled through the sky just overhead.  The resulting crash of stone and the screams of men made her stomach clench even more. All she could do was swallow the bile that rose in her throat and trudge on. To Isobel's relief, the higher they rose, the less danger there was from fire and stone hurled from the fields below. But the road wove on interminably. They traveled in silence for a while, and she mentally cursed those who had designed this city. The zigzag of the streets from level to level had always seemed charming to her before; now it only made the way longer.

"Why are you still here?"

"What?" She had become so focused on the effort to set one foot in front of the other that she had almost forgotten poor Rodon.  She had stopped noticing his weight, and had become used to the slow progress his injuries necessitated.  But as he spoke, awareness filled her mind.  He was growing weaker with every step.  More often than not he rested his head on her shoulder, and he had grown heavier by degree as he became less able to carry any weight on his legs.  She tightened her grip on him and threw everything she had into their forward progress.

"Why did you stay?" he asked again.  His voice was hoarse, little more than a harsh breath in her ear.  "Why did you not leave with the rest?"

"I…" His question rendered her speechless for a moment while her mind whirled. Why _had _she stayed? So she could die a brave and noble death? So she could be closer to her love? It had seemed a grand idea only a few days before.  Now it seemed brainless and irresponsible, a foolish romantic dream.  She thought of Legolas finding her here, once the battle was done.  Would finding her dead in Minas Tirith make him proud of her?  She wanted to weep at her own stupidity, but made herself choke back her tears.  She had no time or energy to waste on them.

"I did not know it would be like this," she finally said, her voice so small that she could barely hear herself.  She wondered if she had even spoken at all.

But she had.  She felt Rodon sigh, and the weight on her shoulders increased painfully. "Neither did I," he said.

One last bend in the road and Isobel nearly cried out in relief: there it was.  The Houses of Healing, just up the hill.  She tightened her grip on Rodon's waist, and bent her head to his.  "There, you see?  Here we are.  Nothing to fear."  She did not know how her voice could sound so light and unworried in the middle of so much terror and death, but she spoke to him as easily as she could, as though they were simply meeting others for a picnic.

But Rodon did not answer her.  She looked at him, and her heart jumped at the sickening way his head lolled on his neck.  His eyes blinked slowly, but his gaze was unfocused. 

No.  Anger blazed within her.  Rodon would not die this night.  He had been entrusted to her, and she would not allow him to die.  "Rodon!"  She shook him gently, pinched at the arm that was slung around her shoulders.  "Rodon, look at me!"

He blinked again and slowly turned his eyes to her.  She had never seen a man with such fear in his eyes, such despair.  Such utter hopelessness.  "Forgive me, " he whispered.  "I do not think that I can…"

His body went limp, sagged against hers completely, and the sudden weight pulled her down to her knees. "No!"  She shrieked her denial as she pulled him against her, lightly slapping his face, trying to rouse him.  This could not be happening.  Not now, not when they were practically there.  "Rodon!  Rodon, please!"

"Come then, lass."  Her head whirled round at the kindly voice that came from above and beside her.  Another soldier leaned down, lifting one of Rodon's arms, slipping it behind his neck.  "Get his other arm there, and we'll get him inside."

She felt almost limp with gratitude, but she found the strength to struggle to her feet.  Her shoe caught in her skirts, and she dimly heard the sound of tearing cloth, but her attention was focused elsewhere so she paid it no mind.  With the other man's help, they got the younger soldier up, and together they propelled him through the gate.

She had never been inside the Houses of Healing before, and Isobel stopped short as they staggered through the gate.   The soldier helping her, however, propelled them all along, so she was forced to pick up her feet once more. Her mouth dropped open as she looked to the left and to the right.  She craned her head around to look behind them in wild-eyed shock, but the soldier's insistent prodding forced her to give her attention back to her charge.  Rodon's face was very pale, and he sagged in their arms.

"Over here," a voice called.  Isobel looked around to see a middle-aged woman motioning to them.  She beckoned them over, and her air of serenity filled Isobel with relief.  Here was someone who knew what to do.  Here was someone who could help them.

"Yes, set him down here, gently now." The woman directed them to a spot near the wall, where a folded blanket made a makeshift bed.  Isobel and the soldier worked together to ease the soldier down, and her heart constricted when Rodon did not move.  He seemed too weak to even acknowledge the pain.

"Oh, and you will need your arm seen to." Isobel blinked and looked down at herself.  Her arm was fine.  A little sore perhaps, but…  She looked up then to notice the soldier who had helped her.  She had never really looked at him until now, and she gasped to see that he had one arm wrapped in the remains of a bloodstained cloak. "There are many hurt worse, I'm afraid, you'll have to wait," the woman told him.  Isobel was horrified at this cold dismissal of his injury, but the soldier did not react.  He simply closed his eyes and nodded, making himself as comfortable as he could on the ground, leaning against the wall.

The healer then turned her attention to Rodon, busying herself with looking at his leg. His skin had gone paler and his eyes were closed, but then he hissed as she began to cut away his boot. Isobel saw then that his leg was badly broken, and bled horribly. She closed her eyes tightly and turned away from the sight.

Only to face more horror. The courtyard before the large, imposing building must have ordinarily been beautiful and calming to those in the care of the healers, but now it was packed with wounded men and busy workers. The injured lay side by side all around the spacious courtyard, moaning and writhing, their bodies bloody and broken.  Healers and their helpers moved among the wounded, doing incomprehensible and appalling things to the men. Isobel picked her way through the rows of wounded men, trying to find a little space, some place she could be out of the way, but it was too crowded. The metallic stench of blood made her throat close, and the agonized cries of the men brought helpless tears to her eyes.  She shook her head from side to side, unable to do anything else in the face of so much pain.

"Do not stand there gawking uselessly, child, get your apron on and get busy." The woman who spoke looked as though she were normally cheerful and kind, but her face was lined with worry and toil, and she pushed past Isobel brusquely.

Her rough words startled Isobel out of her horrified reverie.  "But… but I do not know where…"

The woman's eyes blazed with impatience, and she pointed irritably to an alcove in the wall.   Isobel hurried over. Another woman who stripped off a blood-soaked apron and tossed it into a large basket followed her.  Isobel watched her pull a clean one from another basket and tie it on quickly, so Isobel followed suit.

She glanced over at Isobel, and her expression was harried, but not unkind. "What was your name again, dear?" But before Isobel could answer, she found a basket of rolled cloth shoved into her hands. "Take these over to Handir, won't you, I've got to draw more water."

Isobel turned automatically in the direction the woman had indicated, and actually took three steps before it occurred to her that she had no idea who Handir was, or where he might be.  She chewed on her bottom lip and glanced back over her shoulder, but the other woman had already gone.  Isobel scanned the courtyard, and when she saw an elderly healer looking at her with an expression of extreme impatience, she knew she had found Handir.  She hurried in that direction.

"There you are," he said absently.  She opened her mouth to apologize, but he had already turned his attention to the injured man before him.  The healer had stripped away the dirty linen from his wounds, letting it fall to the ground.  Without looking, he reached one hand back, and Isobel hurried to thrust the basket under his hands.  He plucked a couple of rolls of linen, then glanced over his shoulder at her. 

"I will need your help," he said.  "Put that down and come over here."

Hesitantly, she put the basket down near the soldier's feet and joined the healer.  She watched, her eyes wide, as he unrolled the linen and refolded it into a large thick square.  He handed it to her and nodded to the soldier.  She looked at the linen in her hands, then down at the soldier, then finally back to the healer again, completely uncomprehending.  He clucked his tongue in annoyance and took the linen back, laying it on the nasty-looking gash in the soldier's side.  Holding it there with one hand, he took Isobel's hands with his other one and drew them down to hold the linen in place. 

"Put pressure there," he said.  "The bleeding has slowed, but it has not yet stopped.  The wound must be bandaged again."

She pressed down gently, and a cross look from the healer made her press down more.  The wounded man moaned quietly, and she automatically took one hand off the bandage to touch his forehead.  His skin was hot and damp, and she brushed away the hair that stuck to his forehead.  At her touch, his eyes blinked open, and she watched as he focused on her.  His eyes were clouded with pain, and for a moment she felt it herself. 

"Shh…" She stroked his hair.  "This will only take a moment, and then you may rest once more."

He shook his head under her hand, the movement small and almost lifeless.  He licked cracked lips, and seemed to struggle to speak.  "I will not survive the night," he whispered.

"Nonsense," she said, her voice just barely louder than a murmur.  "You will be fine."  She had no idea if she was speaking the truth.  The bandage under her hand was growing warm, and a glance down showed that blood was beginning to seep through.  The healer's face was grim, but he worked quickly and efficiently.  Together, they raised the man up enough so that the healer could wind bandages around his body, and Isobel held the bulk of the weight, still speaking to the wounded man softly, reassuring him.  He was nearly asleep again when they had finished.  Somehow she managed a smile, but his eyes had closed against the pain.  Handir worked quickly, binding the wound and tying off the bandage, and then he was on his feet. "Come along," he told her, and she gave the soldier's hand a hurried pat, and snatched up her basket of bandages and followed behind.

So Isobel began her career as a healer, though she would never dream of applying the word to herself. She felt uncomfortable and sometimes even nauseous at the things she was required to do and watch. She should not have worried that the healers would turn her away, for they were in need of every hand they could get, skilled or not. She followed Handir for several hours, stanching blood, holding gaping wounds so that he could sew them closed, straightening broken bones, dribbling water into thirsty mouths, closing the eyes of the dead.  Whenever they came to a dead soldier, which was often, Handir put a small square of linen over the dead man's face. Isobel was moved by what she saw as a sign of respect for the dead, until she realized that the purpose of the cloth was not to give the dead a last bit of dignity; it was a signal. A handful of older boys, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old, worked ceaselessly. Whenever they saw a soldier with the telltale cloth over his face, they knew to carry him off, Isobel knew not where, to make room for ever more wounded men.  She herself placed the cloth over Rodon's face when the young man succumbed to his injuries. 

She soon learned a bit more about the workings of the place, and what had seemed like utter chaos at first began to take on a pattern. These men who remained out here in the courtyard, she discovered, were those hurt the least, and the worst. Those who would probably live, with time and a little care, lay here, with a couple of healers and the least skilled of their helpers tending to them. Also out here were those whose wounds were beyond the skill of any healer. They were given a little water if they asked it, but otherwise they were simply left to die. Isobel could hardly bear the thought of it, and mentally railed against the brutality of the healers, until she was sent into the house proper to fetch something. There were many rooms in the large stone building, but most were already filled, and here the healers used all their skill, trying to save those who were grievously wounded, but who might yet live.

She knew enough to stay out of the house itself, where the seriously wounded lay. Her skills lent themselves to fetching and carrying, not healing. She stayed out in the courtyard, and never found a moment's idleness. Many of the healers and those who helped them had been working ceaselessly, and here and there weariness began to show. Isobel went to and fro, doing anything that was asked of her, whether it was mopping up blood, or wiping a feverish brow, or simply whispering a soothing word to those in need of comfort. So much suffering sickened and frightened her, so she redoubled her efforts, only able to cope by ignoring everything around her except for the next patient, the next soiled bandage to be changed.

Twice she had changed her apron in the course of a few hours, and she now went back a third time for a fresh one. The basket of dirty linen had been emptied; as she tied a clean apron on over her dress she wondered who did the laundry. Surely there was no time for such things, yet it was a necessity. She sighed, reaching for a basket and piling rolled bandages inside. She had never been so aware of all that needed to be done, and how few there were to do it.

She ducked out of the alcove, and a flash of green light danced in the corner of her vision for a moment, then was gone. She looked down, in the direction of the light, and saw the green leaf-jewel, hanging from its leather thong.  She was surprised at first to see it – all of her possessions had been lost in the midst of the fire and chaos.  She had only managed to keep the jewel because it had been around her neck, tucked safely into the neckline of her dress.  She was thankful now that she had strung it on that leather thong; her heart would have broken if she had lost this too.  She paused, allowing herself a thin smile as she touched the warm metal of the jewel, and for a few moments thought of Legolas, wherever he might be. She was careful not to think of him too much, lest she allow despair to paralyze her, but she conjured up a quick picture, enough to bring a brief smile to her face. Then she tucked the jewel back into her bodice and went on, looping the basket over her arm.

But it was not long before her steps faltered.  She could sense evil approaching, even before the first scream pierced the night. The torches around the courtyard suddenly flickered and sputtered, and the darkness became more acute. Isobel looked up at the sky in confusion, as shouts rose around her.

"Nazgul!"  
  
The moonless, starless sky was too dark to see anything, but she felt it, a horrible shadow passing overhead. Too frightened to cry out, she threw herself backwards, cowering against the wall. The monster shrieked, an ugly, unearthly shriek, and she clapped her hands to her ears, trying uselessly to stop the tortuous noise, trying to make herself as small as possible. But it was no use. It saw her. Its dead eyes pierced her, pinning her to the spot, and icy fingers wrapped tight around her throat. The sounds of those around her faded away. She felt utterly alone, trapped on a high place; a biting wind blew through her, freezing her heart and her breath.

But then it was gone, and she could breathe again. She collapsed weakly on the ground, shivering and nauseous. A long moment passed as she regained control of herself. Opening her eyes, she found herself pressed facedown against the cobblestones of the courtyard, her hands over her head. A momentary rush of shame filled her, until she dared to raise her head and look around her. She had not been the only one to give in to terror. All around her people were shaking off their fright, healer and soldier alike. Some gasped and trembled, others sobbed outright from the sick horror.

Isobel wiped her sweating forehead on her apron, and saw nearby another of the helpers quivered on the ground. Isobel crawled over to her, thinking to comfort her, and perhaps still her own trembling.  But the woman screamed and flinched away as Isobel laid a hand on her arm.  After a moment, the mad fear drained from her face, and she turned wide eyes to Isobel.

"Is-is it gone?" she stammered.

Isobel nodded, unable to trust her voice just yet. She patted the other woman's shoulder, and left her to recover, and set about gathering up the bandages that had spilled out of her basket when she had heedlessly dropped it.

The night wore on. Never had so little time taken so long to pass, Isobel thought. The Nazgul had returned during the night, more than once, sending the same frantic terror piercing through her. But she learned to bear it, to the point that she only closed her eyes tight and trembled at its approach.   She sighed and dragged herself to the alcove for more bandages. Now that it occurred to her that she had worked through the night, she was more weary than she had ever been.

She was not the only one to notice. One of the helpers, an older woman named Melleth, gave her a tired smile as Isobel refilled her basket. She shook her head and took the basket away. Isobel stared after it, uncomprehending."You need to rest, child. It is your turn."

"No, I am fine," she said automatically. Her protest was weak, however. She blinked slowly, and her vision swam a little.

"Yes," Melleth said gently. "You will be of no use to anyone if you collapse. And if you do not take rest soon, that is precisely what will happen."Isobel thought about protesting again, but instead she simply sighed and nodded. When she found herself barely able to keep her footing as she followed Melleth into the main building and down a narrow corridor. "These are the servant's rooms, we need all the main rooms of the house for the wounded," Melleth told her. "Most of the servants left the city days ago."  They had walked halfway to Osgiliath, in Isobel's estimation, before they stopped at a small room. "Someone will be by to wake you," Melleth said, and she was gone.  
  
Isobel opened the door, and for a moment could do nothing but stare.  The room was little more than a storage closet, barely big enough for the rude pallet. There was a small box near the pallet, which held a stub of a candle.

She had not expected more in the way of accommodations. There was not room in the Houses of Healing for all of the wounded, they would certainly not ready a grand guest room for her.  She closed the door behind her and toed off her shoes.  Her hair was a mess, so she picked out the snarls as best she could before taming it into a long plait.  She tied the end with a scrap of linen she had stashed in her pocket. The pallet was lumpy, and she squirmed a little to find a comfortable position. Tired as she was, she was not sure that she would be able to sleep. 

But before she could think more on it, there was a knock at the door.  She groaned and lifted her head.  Was she not to be allowed rest after all?  She got slowly to her feet, groaning again at the stiffness and soreness that had overtaken her limbs.  She opened the door and peered blearily at the healer who stood there. 

"It is time," she said, not unkindly.  "We need you again."

Isobel blinked.  "But…" She looked over her shoulder at the pallet, then back at the healer, too confused to protest.  Surely this woman had come to the wrong room?

But the healer merely smiled thinly at her distress, and took her arm.  "It happens to us all," she said.  "When we get the chance to rest, the hours go by in a heartbeat."

Isobel still wanted to argue that she had not slept at all, but then they were in the courtyard.  The sky was still dark, but with a vague grayness that showed it would soon be dawn. She must have slept, then, longer than she thought, although she had never felt less rested.   A glance around the courtyard showed her that conditions had not improved; in fact, it seemed there were more wounded than ever.  Isobel sighed.  There was still much work to be done. She tied on an apron and picked up yet another basket of the countless bandages. Handir knelt by a soldier nearby, and he motioned to her. She coaxed her stiff and sluggish body over, plumping herself gracelessly on the ground beside him, automatically pulling out the bandages he would need.

"Hold his arm up," Handir ordered briskly. Though his voice was alert, Isobel could see the dark circles under his eyes, and the weariness etched in his face. She wondered if he had slept at all. Probably not.  Ashamed of herself, she shook her head to clear away the sleepiness.  She had wanted to stay, she reminded herself.  She had wanted to be a part of this glorious war.

But as she sat in the courtyard in the pre-dawn morning, her dress stained with the blood of countless men, her body bruised and sore, and her chest tight from the ocean of tears she felt but was too tired to shed, she wondered how anyone could think that war was glorious.  For the first time, she wondered if she would have been better off in Rivendell after all.

Handir held his hand out, and Isobel quickly laid a clean bandage across it, chastising herself for her thoughts.  At least now she was helping; she was doing something other than hiding in a house, waiting to die.  In Rivendell, she had felt like an outsider, useless.  Here she was needed, if only to carry bandages and fetch water. At any rate, wishing herself elsewhere was less than useless. Here she was.


	5. Five

Authors' Note: We thought this would be a good time to remind everyone that this story, as well as the one before it, is a mix of book and movieverse. That becomes readily apparent in this section, since the movie and book versions were so different. We tried to incorporate parts of both in our narrative.

Chapter Five

Isobel had no time to feel sorry for herself, or regret that she had left the safety of Rivendell. There was simply too much to do, and there were too many injured soldiers that needed her attention. Through force of habit, she had become Handir's regular assistant. The Healer moved steadily through the throng of the wounded, and she stayed always just behind him, at his right hand to slip him bandages and other supplies, or to offer words of encouragement and comfort to a soldier as Handir attended him. Too tired to think and too frightened to feel, she instead focused on each task before her as it came: the next wound to stitch, the next fevered brow to soothe. When the world shrank down to those small things, taken one at a time, she found that it was a little easier to manage.

They were thus occupied when a thunderous roar filled the air. Always those at the Houses of Healing had heard the sounds of battle, but they had been indistinct, a vague, unpleasant music that they had learned to ignore. But this was different; it sounded much closer and more imminently threatening. Again there was a roar and a crash, and another, until Isobel could no longer ignore it, and looked around in alarm.

"The gate," the soldier on the ground said, hopelessness in his voice. "They are breaking down the gate."

At first Isobel just gaped at him, not understanding. The gate? That could not be; it was massive, an incredibly strong structure. Surely it could stand against anything. But the crashing continued, like a slow drumbeat, until a final crescendo of protesting metal and falling stone filled the morning air, and then there was nothing but silence. The courtyard went silent as well, as everyone was frozen in fear. The gate was their final defense; if it had truly fallen, they were all finished.

Somewhere a woman began to sob. A sharp voice instantly scolded, and the sounds were muffled, but Isobel wanted nothing so much as to join her. Her body tensed as her eyes darted around. She would have risen, would have run, but Handir grasped her wrist.

"Do not move," he said in a low monotone. "We still have work to do."

He said nothing more, but his eyes held hers for a long moment, and she felt both chastened and comforted. She took a shaking breath and pulled her wrist from his grasp. "Tell me what to do." She felt weak with fear, but she would not run.

And so they returned to their task, and once again her focus narrowed to the wound in front of her, the healer who needed her help, the soldier who needed a kind word. She closed her ears to the din of battle, she tried to ignore the clang of metal on metal that seemed to come ever closer.

After a time, Handir took a bit of rest, and Isobel allowed herself a few minutes to stretch her tired muscles and wash her face. Then she changed her apron and refilled her basket with linen, and a quick glance around brought her to the side of another healer - a younger woman whose name she did not know. They spoke little, saving their flagging energy for the work before them. Isobel spent the better part of next hour apprehensive and agitated, continually looking toward the entrance to the Houses of Healing, waiting for the enemy.

For a while the injured soldiers that streamed into the courtyard confirmed the fears they all shared. They told of the monstrous battering ram, the huge beasts that pulled it, the countless orcs; some of them whispered fearfully of the Nazgul. Isobel's hands trembled a little at the word, hissed from one man to another, and remembered the shrieking beast that had kept watch on them in the night. It was still out there, then. And before long it would come to finish them all.

But time went by, and nothing happened. No orcs appeared to attack the helpless healers and their charges. No preternatural beings swooped down to steal their souls. They worked on, and nothing more frightening than the endless line of wounded came through the gate to the courtyard. After a time she realized that she had stopped checking the gate for orcs and certain death.

The courtyard had seemed crowded before, but now there was barely room to walk, barely room to kneel at the side of the next wounded man who needed her help. The more men she saw, the more she felt her resolve hardening, and found herself unable to spare a glance to those she knew were beyond their aid. She had thought the healers heartless in doing so at first, but now she knew that to dwell on each death, each man that she could not save, would lead to madness. There was too much work to be done; she could not afford to be so self-indulgent.

The morning wore on, and as more men trickled into the courtyard, voices became more optimistic, the news began to change. The Rohirrim had come! At the grey light of day, the horse lords had swept down from the north and frightened the invaders away from the city. They were saved!

But no sooner had Isobel allowed herself to hope, than the news changed once more. The Rohirrim were too few. Their horses went mad at the sight of the monstrous beasts from the south. But, other men countered, they were brave and fierce warriors, and orcs and men continued to fall back before them.

Those that had the strength talked about battle strategies, and such conversation seemed to distract the soldiers from the pain of their wounds. The air around her filled with debate about what the horsemen should do, and how they should flank the enemy. It was all nonsense to Isobel's ears, and to be honest she knew not what to believe. Apparently death was not imminent, but nothing was certain, as every man had a different tale to tell. Her head swam with doubt as she mechanically bandaged and fetched and soothed, and she found herself wondering if they had thought to bar the broken gate, and how.

"Make way! Make way!"

A familiar voice penetrated her thoughts, and she looked up from her place beside an unconscious soldier. She gasped as she watched Pippin and a guard hurry through the gate, carrying a sick man on a litter into the House, shouting commands as he went. She rose to her feet in a daze, wondering if she had really seen the hobbit at all. Soon he came rushing out again, and she was relieved to see that he looked whole, not injured at all. But his expression was grim; she barely recognized the jovial companion from her time in Rivendell. He wore his livery of Gondor, and it was stained, streaked with blood and soot, as though he had fallen into a hearth.

He had started for the gate, but halted in his tracks when he saw her. He started toward her, and she met him halfway, stooping a little and grasping for his hands. "I'm glad to see you here at last," he said. "Now stay here and stay safe. I have to go." He squeezed her hands once before letting them go.

"But…" Her words died in her throat as she watched him dart away, back into the chaos of the burning city.

Isobel's heart constricted for Pippin's sake. He had rushed back into danger without even thinking. She almost envied such courage, even as she feared for him. She rose to her feet to turn back to her work, but a horrible scream tore through the air, a scream filled with malice and fear.

The Nazgul! It had returned! The need to hide overwhelmed her, but terror kept her immobile, and all she could do was fall to her knees once more. She closed her eyes tight and balled her apron in her fists, willing for it to stop. She told herself it would only last for a few moments, soon the horrible cry would fade, as it had so many times before, but instead the unearthly shrieking continued. It was sharper this time, more painful, filled not only with malice but with suffering. She fought to breathe, hardly able to draw air into her lungs for the screaming that filled her mind and her soul.

Then the shriek faded, and she was able to breathe again. She opened her eyes and saw others around her looking around in confusion. Her arms shook, and her knees almost buckled when she stood once more. Yet her heart felt lighter now, as though it had been held down by a great weight that she had only noticed when it was taken away. She could not explain it, but the very air felt different.

The work did not let up, however; more and more men found their way to the Houses of Healing. So many soldiers occupied the courtyard and the inner house that Isobel wondered if there were any left fighting the enemy. But the sounds of battle, still too close for anyone's liking, proved that there were indeed some men still defending Minas Tirith.

While propping up a soldier, Isobel's gaze was caught by two men carrying a litter into the courtyard, and she stared openly. Not that a wounded soldier being borne into the Houses of Healing was a strange sight, but even from this distance it was plain that this soldier was a woman. Isobel's first thought was that this woman was someone like herself, who had stayed behind for whatever reason and had been caught in the fighting. But this woman was dressed as a man, in full battle armor that she had come to recognize as being that of Rohan. The woman's skin was pale, almost translucent, and her hair was the color of summer wheat. Her eyes were closed; she made no movement or sound. Isobel very much feared she was dead, and a great pity filled her, followed quickly by a flush of anger. How could the Rohirrim expect their women to ride into battle and survive?

"Hold this." Melleth spoke softly, but her commanding tone instantly jarred Isobel out of her thoughts. She hurried to obey, and the vision of the poor dead woman was driven from her head in light of the soldier there before her, whose life she could still save. But no sooner had she taken the basket in her hand than she saw a small Gondorian guard enter the main house. Pippin. She handed the full basket to the waiting helper, and picked her way as quickly as she could over the rows of bodies, not caring if she was abandoning her duty. She had to find out if Pippin was hurt.

Nobody stopped her as she entered the house, but it seemed much darker than the courtyard, and it took her a moment or two to spot Pippin, but her eyes picked him out just as he turned a corner. She rushed after him, glancing inside each room that lined the hallway, until she finally found him. She gasped to see Gandalf laying another small soldier on the bed. She would have thought it was a child, but Pippin's forlorn face made her look closer.

"Merry!" she cried.

Gandalf looked at her sharply, but if he recognized her he gave no sign. "Fetch a healer, child. And quickly."

Isobel turned and fled into the hallway, wondering where she would find a healer who was not already occupied with more injured than could be cared for. Luckily she did not have far to go. She nearly ran into an elderly man coming out of a room just down the hallway. Her distress must have been readily apparent, for his expression softened almost immediately. "What is it, child?"

"Oh, please come," she said, leading him to Merry's room. The healer left her standing at the door to immediately kneel at Merry's side. Gandalf spoke to him in low tones, then the healer reached for Merry's arm. After examining it for a moment, he looked up at Gandalf with concern in his eyes. He turned back to Isobel, who was hovering uncertainly at the foot of the bed, her hands grasping Pippin's shoulders.

"Get Melleth, and fetch hot water. As quickly as you can."

She did so without even thinking, and before she knew it she was back in the room, carefully setting a basin down on a side table, with no memory of obtaining the basin or the water that steamed within. She and Pippin were then herded out, and the door closed with a thud of finality that made tears spring to her eyes. She stared at the solid wood, while images of breaking it down blossomed in her mind. But soon enough, awareness came back to her, and she remembered all that she had yet to do. She could not waste time in this manner.

She glanced down at Pippin, who also looked at the door, his gaze dulled with shock and exhaustion. "Stay here," she said, laying a hand on his shoulder. "And find me if he… when there is news." Pippin nodded, but his eyes did not waver, he did not look up at her. She allowed herself to pat his shoulder once more, and then turned toward the main rooms of the House.

A slight draft blew as she walked down the hall, and hair tickled the sides of her face. She swiped it away, tucking ends back into the braid that caught the rest of it back. She was nearly to the door when a voice called to her for aid. She soon discovered that now that she was inside the house proper, it was next to impossible to get back out again, as she was continually called to help this healer or that. It was quieter here inside than out in the courtyard, but it was an ominous quiet, punctuated by the more than occasional cries of the wounded, muffled behind closed doors, where the treatment seemed to Isobel to be worse than the injury. The battle wore on, and the day wore on along with it. Isobel barely noticed the passage of time; whenever she happened to pass a window, she saw the sun was all but invisible behind the greyness of the sky and the smoke that filled the air.

As she shuffled wearily from one task to the next, she came upon a soldier on a litter in the hall, waiting to be carried into one of the inner rooms. Isobel knelt beside him automatically, to see if there was anything she could do for him with her minimal skills. His face was awash in blood, and she tried to wipe a little of it away. If he lived, he would be blind and disfigured, she could tell that much, and she reflected dully that this knowledge no longer had the power to even wring a gasp from her. Was this her future, then, if by some chance she should live through this war? Would she go through her life with all pity and compassion stripped away?

Before this unhappy thought could take hold, she was startled nearly out of her wits by a sudden clamor of bells. This was no time toll, this was a jangling, panicked jumble of noise, shocking and discordant. "What is that?" she said to herself in a frightened whisper.

"Retreat."

She looked down at the soldier in surprise; she had thought him unconscious.

"They sound retreat. It is over." His voice was a pained rasp, but he kept speaking. "It is over, we are overrun, we are finished. It is over."

Isobel made to rise, but his hand grasped at her unseeing, and he managed to catch her wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong, and he would not let go. He repeated his words, "It is over, it is over" again and again, and she struggled to free herself. Gritting her teeth, she pried his fingers from her wrist, hardly caring whether she hurt him or not. After all the confusion and terror and uncertainty of this day, she should be resigned to her fate, but she found she was not resigned at all. She had to know, she had to find out for herself. Finally free of the soldier's painful grip, she ran toward the door of the House. She paused on the main dais of the House, not sure where to run. A cold wind blew through the courtyard; a sudden breeze that tossed the loose strands of hair that had escaped her braid and kissed her face and arms with a sudden chill. She glanced up at the sky, and was alarmed to see a strange tinge in the air. An almost-mist swirled around the tops of the buildings, and the more she watched it, the harder the wind blew. She backed up a few steps, her hand reaching behind her to touch the rough stone wall, while her skirts clung to her legs. The wind had become a gale, cold and stinging, and she pressed her back to the wall, blinking against the force of the sudden storm.

At first she thought it was as trick of the light, a strange swirl of smoke, but then she saw it again, and again. There was something in the air. Figures danced barely seen in the mist, clad in tatters of armor, swooping malevolently through the cold wind that carried them. She saw a flash of an arm, of rotted flesh holding swords and spears, and she felt herself crumble to the ground, once more paralyzed with terror. Dead eyes turned on her, and a scream filled her chest, but she was too weak to make a sound. The ghoulish creatures dismissed her with a wave, however, and rushed past her, through her.

The wind died slowly, and Isobel leaned back against the wall, shivering from the cold that had pierced her. She could not move, she simply breathed deep and waited for the end. For those beings could only be allies of the enemy, could they not? But as the cold drained away, the rest of the city remained relatively quiet. All around the courtyard, healers and injured shook off their fear, as they had done many times today, and carried on. The bells had stopped their mad tolling, and while she could still hear fighting, it had once more become the dull, vague sounds that indicated the battle was some distance away.

She pulled herself to her feet once more. It was not over, then. The man in the hall had been wrong. She turned back into the House and squared her shoulders. Her hands shook only a little as she took up a basket and got back to work. Soon enough she was busy again, and could almost forget that she had tried to run. Indeed she was so busy that when word that the battle was over began trickling up to the healers, she could not work up more than a vague relief, which was soon pushed aside by ceaseless labor. For the end of the battle, she learned, meant only an increase in the number of wounded men brought in. So many that finally no more could be packed into the house and the courtyard, and the nearby houses had to be requisitioned for the use of the healers.

She had paused for a clean apron and a breath when a basin of water - hot water, she noticed, as it sloshed down her skirt – was pushed into her hands. "You know the halfling's room?" the older woman asked, not waiting for Isobel's answer. "Take it in there, quickly." Her heart leapt at the order: Merry! She hurried there as quickly as the basin of water would allow her to walk.

The door was slightly ajar when she reached the room, and she slipped through easily. Pippin stood on one side of the bed, and on the other side a healer bent over the unconscious hobbit. Merry moaned softly as if lost in some black dream. Her eyes were still on Merry when she set the water down next to the healer, but his murmured thanks made her eyes fly to his face. Aragorn! He looked weary and battle-bruised, but his eyes were alert, and his hands were sure. Her soft gasp caught his attention, and for a few heartbeats they regarded one another. She did not know what surprised her more: that he was there, or that he was skilled as a healer. Surprise flickered in his eyes as well, but he did not speak to her. After a moment he nodded an acknowledgement and turned back to his task.

Isobel wanted to stay and help however she could, but to her great frustration the healer who assisted Aragorn would not allow it, and she found herself in the corridor once more. She lingered outside the door, straining to hear something, until someone came out of a room just down the hall. It was one of the healers, an older woman, who gave Isobel a glare that silently rebuked her for listening at doors when she should be working. Isobel turned and fled into the courtyard.

--------------

Legolas suppressed yet another sigh as he looked around him. The excitement and energy of battle had worn off long ago, leaving him feeling useless and lethargic. He had tried to rest, but the stink of blood and death and orc was heavy on the air. The stench wove itself into his mind; it poisoned even the most pleasant thoughts and made his dreams intolerable. Dark clouds still obscured the sky, blotting out moon and stars, so he had not even that solace. He was reduced to prowling around the quiet camp.

"You're restless tonight." Gimli sat before his tent, cleaning and sharpening his axe, notched by orc bones and blackened by orc blood.

"I am." Legolas squatted down, watching the Gimli at his task. Sturdy dwarf hands moved in a practiced rhythm over the blade, and Legolas found rest for his eyes, if not for his mind, in the repetitive sound and movement.

"Have you heard?"

Legolas transferred his eyes from Gimli's hands to his face. "I have heard many things."

Gimli grunted. "About our friend Merry?" At Legolas's raised eyebrow, he went on. "He was here. The horsemen brought him to battle." His tone, even more gruff than usual, showed exactly what he thought of that. "He lies gravely injured in the Houses of Healing within the city."

For a moment Legolas was silent, absorbing this news. He had taken comfort in thinking that some of his friends were spared the immediate horrors of this war. "This is sad news indeed. The hobbits have courage beyond their size, it is true, but they are no warriors. One might say that was not wise of Theoden."

"I would say it was very foolish." Gimli was blunt. "Ah, well, he is beyond any reproaches of ours now. And perhaps our young friend would not be denied."

"You may be right." Legolas nodded thoughtfully, then stood, his mind made up. "I will go into the city now, and see if he—see how he does."

"Good," Gimli said. "Give you something to do. I would go with you, but I must finish this. Our battles are not yet over, I think."

"Of course," Legolas said, but he was no longer listening. His mind was already halfway to the Houses of Healing.

--------------------

Isobel's limbs felt heavier the longer she worked, and she wondered idly how long it had been since the one short rest she had been granted. Things had taken on an almost dream-like quality in the past few hours, as the combination of physical and emotional exhaustion numbed her mind, and she saw the world now through a sort of fog. Occasionally something happened to pierce the fog, but those moments of clarity brought searing pain with them.

Seeing Merry prone and battered was one such moment, and she vaguely remembered clinging to Pippin as tightly as he clung to her. But she had been forced to leave Pippin behind to watch over his friend, and she was moving again, moving automatically, her body obeying commands her mind had barely heard. The fog returned, and she fetched and carried, bandaged and washed, the familiar detachment settling in, keeping her set apart from everything.

Aragorn had been another moment of clarity. But it had been mercifully brief, and she returned almost gratefully to the fog. She worked now in a daze, her mind focusing on everything and nothing all at once. No longer assisting any one healer, she moved among the injured alone, providing comfort where she could. She murmured words that now came automatically to her lips; she had spoken them so often that she barely heard them, and they held almost no meaning anymore. She kept herself moving, kept herself working, because if she stopped, she would begin to think. If she allowed herself to think, she would wonder where _he_ was. She would wonder if he had even survived.

------------------

Once inside the city, Legolas walked the streets of Minas Tirith. A part of him could not help but admire the design of the city as a whole, the way the streets wound in a spiral up the mountain. The carnage of war was impossible to ignore, however: there would be a great deal of work ahead for the citizens of Gondor to restore this place to any vestige of its former glory.

The Houses of Healing were easier to find than he had anticipated. The farther he went along the main road, the more people he saw, all traveling in the same direction: toward the Houses, looking for aid. As he drew closer, he saw that many dwellings had been appropriated for the injured, and tired-looking women in aprons hurried to and fro, carrying baskets of bandages and basins of water. He wound his way through the growing crowd and slipped through the gates of the main House.

---------------

And so she worked, attending to many soldiers but not really seeing their faces. But then one man spoke her name. Amazed, she lifted her head to look into the eyes of the wounded man.

"Saeldir..." The fog fled from her mind, and she knew that it would not return this time. She bent over his injuries, with the eyes of a friend now and not a nurse. The arrow wound in his thigh had been well-tended, she knew enough by now to tell that it would heal with little more than a scar to remind him of it. But his shoulder had been more severely injured. It looked as though it had been treated as well as could be, but the wound still seeped. She took a bundle of linen from her basket and unwound it. "Let me change this," she said. Practice had given her a talent for sounding businesslike and nonchalant in the face of an injury that could prove to be mortal.

"What..." Saeldir took a couple of breaths and tried again, his voice stronger. "Why have you stayed behind? Where is Arvess?" His eyes flooded then with fear, and he struggled to sit up. "You were all to leave the city. Where is she?"

"Hush." Isobel dropped the linen into her lap and stopped his struggles. Supporting his injured shoulder, she eased him back down. "Rest easy. Arvess is in Lebennin, with the children. She left the day they evacuated the city. Please do not worry yourself, she is fine." Isobel worked the soiled bandage from his shoulder, her hands hesitating when he hissed in pain. "I chose to stay behind," she said, keeping her voice low, conversational. They might have been speaking over a cooking fire on an ordinary evening. "But do not fear. I helped her and the children pack their things, and I watched myself as they went. The children were no trouble, I am sure, as I helped Arvess tie them to the cart before she left."

A sharp sound escaped Saeldir, harsh laughter wrapped in pain. "They would need to be tied," he rasped, "in order to be no trouble."

"Precisely." She started to work once more on the bandage, her mind casting about for something to say next, stories she could tell him of his wife and his children. Anything to distract him from the pain.

------------------

Legolas cast only a quick eye around the courtyard before walking quickly to the main House and mounting the steps. But when his foot hit the top step, he froze. He turned once more back to the courtyard, his eyes darting, and his gaze almost immediately settled on a woman who knelt beside an injured soldier. He watched as she patted the soldier's hand and then stood, gathering her basket of supplies as she did so.

Her apron was streaked with blood, her dress was torn and dirty. Her dark hair was bound in what had once been a neat braid, but which now fell untidily around her face. She was far away, but he had no trouble seeing the dark brown of her eyes. He could even see the flecks of black and gold within them.

Isobel was in Minas Tirith.

--------------------

Isobel continued to speak to Saeldir of his children while she bathed his injured shoulder and wrapped it in fresh linen. She kept her voice light and easy, and did her best to let none of the worry she felt show on her face. She allowed herself a few more minutes at his side, talking quietly and ensuring that he was comfortable enough to rest. Finally his eyes closed, and she patted his hand before rising to her feet once more.

As she stood, she felt an odd sensation. An awareness: an almost-shiver at her shoulder blades that told her that someone was watching her. She closed her eyes and sighed. She must truly be exhausted. Who would be watching her? And what would they see, she thought. A tired girl in a dirty apron. She should change it now, while she fetched more linen.

She turned toward the alcove, but only made it a few steps before the basket in her hand fell to the ground. She did not notice. All her attention focused on the entrance to the Houses of Healing. Framed in the immense doorway was Legolas. He looked rumpled, as though he had been through much. She thought she could see a small wound here and there, but he looked relatively uninjured.

He was alive.

She had thought that she would rejoice in this news, but seeing him overwhelmed her so that she found she could not move. He did not move either; he simply stared at her, and even from this distance she could see the brilliance of his eyes, pinning her. His face bore no expression, and she wondered if she looked similarly stunned.

But after a moment the paralysis left her, and she felt a smile come to her face. She took a step toward him –

And Legolas turned on his heel and stalked into the House. Isobel stood in the courtyard, surrounded by others, but completely alone.


End file.
